My Risky Business
by KeepingTogether
Summary: -AU- Being a private investigator is a big challenge. So what if my two biggest clients were a known mobster and ten-year-old kid - business was business.


******Disclaimer: **I do not own Avenger or any of its characters.

**CHAPTER 1**

Okay, so maybe my father was right. Being a private investigator can be a little dangerous.

I stared up at the mountain of flesh in front of me – six feet four, three hundred seventy pounds of masculine flab, and all of it quivering in a drunken rage. Another time I might have been fascinated by that rippling effect, but at the moment I was mesmerized by the enormous knife he was waving in one meaty hand. The only thing standing between the two of us was a rusting old porch swing, and that was one wicked-looking knife.

George McGonagall was his name, and he was not dressed unless you count a pair of grungy boxer shorts with – so help me God – blue and green rabbits against an angry orange background. I did not want to count those shorts. Heck, I did not event want to think about those shorts, ever.

"I tole that bitch once," he slurred, his glazed piggy eyes unblinking, "tole that bitch twice. She ain't gonna get that bowl back unless she comes here and asks me nice. You got that?"

Oh, yes. I get that. I could not miss that for the world. That words came accompanied by beer fumes mixed with the sour odor of unwashed flesh. And to reinforce the smell, Lake Erie sent a tepid puff of wind blowing in my direction.

It was not a real breeze but enough to stir the stench of traffic fumes, stale food and a whole host of other smells best not to specifically identify. I began breathing through my mouth while urging the contents of my stomach to stay with me a little longer. This was not the time for rebellion.

Keeping the porch swing between him and me, I edged closer to the steps and freedom.

"I will assure you, that I will pass on your message, Mr. McGonagall."

My tennis shoe found the top step, and I backed down as quickly as humanly possible without taking my eyes off the hand waving the knife. It was broad daylight. Where were all the nosy neighbors? People around here called the police over dogs pooping on their browned-out lawns.

Not that I was anxious to deal with the police right now but I did want out of here without bloodshed – especially mine. Susie McGonagall had hired me to obtain proof that her soon-to-be-ex-husband had physical possession of a hideously large silver-plated loving cup that had once belong to her late grandmother. I had managed to snap several photographs of said loving cup through the open living room window before Mr. McGonagall realized I was standing on his porch. If I had not been greedy and tried for the final photo, he had never noticed my hand sticking in through his windows.

Someone else had put that large hole in his screen, not me. Given the way it was ripped and the knife he was holding, I had hazard a guess that Mr. McGonagall himself had something to do with the torn screen. He seemed to like the idea of putting holes in things – or people.

"You do that," he yelled, menacing me with the long, hairy arm clutching the knife. "You tell that worthless little bitch she can crawl back here on her hands and knees if she wants the damn thing. You tell her that."

He swayed dangerously in my direction.

"Of course, I will inform her that."

I felt the cracked and broken sidewalk under my foot. Turning, I sprinted across the yellowed grass with more speed than I would have thought possible in this heat. The August sun was blistering more than just the city streets around Cleveland, Ohio, this afternoon.

Sleipnir, my ancient VW Bug, started with a grinding noise. I'm quite certain he was not supposed to make. For once I was not concerned about his health. My health was far more important. I left four feet of precious tire tread pealing away from the curb, but at least I made my escape without any new body piercings.

In the rearview mirror I saw Mr. McGonagall standing on the sidewalk scratching his considerably rounded belly while shouting curses in my wake. A scruffy-looking white poodle trotting down that same sidewalk prudently crossed the street to avoid him.

It was sort of sad to think that poodle was a whole lot smarter than I was.

The one good thing about returning to my office was that it was blessedly air-conditioned. Sadly Sleipnir was not, and I could not afford a car that was. Sitting back carefully, I gazed around the converted closet and sighed with relief.

Okay, it was not really a closet. The space had always been a tiny office, well, not my office. It was actually the office that came with my dear friend Natasha's sweet flower shop. I work for her and her partner when I'm not on a case. Unfortunately that is a little too often for comfort.

Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton have owned and operated Flower World for longer than I have been here, which is to say more than twenty years. Their shop is in a building on the corner of Detroit Avenue, down the street from the hospital.

Not exactly the high-rent district, but as Natasha is fond of pointing out, it is a perfect location for a flower shop. It is not a bad location for me, either. The price is certainly right.

I tried living in New York City after I graduated college and earned my investigator's license, but working for an established firm meant I spent most of my time in front of a computer screen running background checks and fetching coffee for the senior partners. Of course, I do more of that here as well, however Barton and Natasha are much pleasant to be around and the background check are for my clients.

Not that I'm exactly buried in cases in this quiet Cleveland suburb, but I grew up in this area. I know people here, and word of mouth is important for a private investigator starting out. Overall I have been doing fine – or I was until Thor Odinson set up shop across the bridge in Rocky River a few weeks ago.

He has an influential background, which is the son of the infamous Investigator Odin, so naturally he is getting all the really good cases. Already his name has made the local papers – twice! The first time was when he unfairly got credit for breaking up a stolen-car ring. The second time was when he located Mayor Fury's missing sculpture. That one really ticked me off.

The car ring had been fluke. Odinson caught the guy trying to steal his car, and because the little twerp wanted to cut a deal with the district attorney, he talked his head off, cracking the ring wide open.

As for the missing sculpture, that turned out to be nothing more than a high school prank. I could have figured that one out in half the time. Natasha and Clint have a communications network that would make Homeland Security envious, and I mean, who else in their right mind would take such an ugly piece of glass and metal?

What really stuck in my craw was that the mayor hired Odinson when he lives doors down from my brother and his family!

Thor Odinson is not even a native Ohioan. He grew up in Pittsburgh, for crying out loud! I know it is petty, but I could not help wishing he had stayed there. Why did he have to come and set up shop on my turf?

I finished downloading the pictures of Mr. McGonagall in his oversize recliner watching a wrestling match while tossing peanuts at the loving cup, and sent them to print. Susie McGonagall would be happy, and I was comforted knowing she was a good for my fee. After all, her dad is a vice president with the local bank where my family has done business for years.

"Hey Loki," Natasha interrupted from the doorway. "Would you have time to finish the Martak arrangement for me? I have a dentist appointment in thirty minutes, and Clint went home to check on Clem."

Clem is the parrot Barton inherited from her mother. I suspect her mother inherited it from her grandmother, who probably got it from her mother. No one seems willing to guess exactly how old that bird is, but from some of the phrases he knows, I suspect he once traveled with pirates. He is aggressive and he knows more swearwords than a drunken sailor.

"No problem, Tash. I can finish the arrangement right now." Leaning forward carefully, I stood up. There were times when the swivel chair seemed to have a mind of its own. "I'm finished working until tonight."

"Oh. You took Thanos case then?"

Natasha could convey a lot of emotion in a few short words. She was in accord with the rest of my family when it came to my career choice, stating that it would not suit me, better be a physician where in you can use your brain than your brawn.

"Really, Lok, I don't see why a handsome young man like you want to spend your nights outside some sleazy motel room taking pictures."

"I'm not fond of divorce work either, Tash, but it pays the bills."

Tonight would not be the first time I had been asked to follow someone around and take pictures of the people they met. However it was the first time I was working for a client who made me nervous.

Mr. Thanos is considered by many to be a successful business entrepreneur. He is well connected down at city hall, but according to one of Barton's sources, if Thanos does not work for organized crime, he has all the right connections. Tall, thin, balding, he looks more like an accountant than someone who owns a string of nightclubs and pricey restaurants and he has the coldest, most disturbing eyes I have ever seen.

I tried to shrug nonchalantly at the worry underscoring my friend's tone. "I cannot afford to turn down a paying client."

A frown creased her forehead. Natasha Romanoff has a beautiful features and gorgeous peaches-and-cream skin. Her short hair is a pretty shade of red and it absolutely suits her. She can be a great girlfriend. However, it will be against my better judgment. Natasha is a good friend, and a good friend should be cherish and cared. I do not want to ruin our friends due to that; beside she is dating Barton now, so it is better that way. Also, I dated both gender, I can easily find someone to entertain me.

"I don't know what your mother would think of you skulking about in bushes and associating with known criminals," she said with genteel scowl.

"First of all, I do not skulk in bushes." At least, not very often. "And second, no one has ever proved Mr. Thanos is a criminal."

"Perhaps, but your mother is probably rolling in her grave at the very idea of you being in the same room with some of these people you call clients."

Fortunately Natasha was in too big a hurry to pursue the topic any further. She patted her pockets, located her keys and settled for shaking her head.

"All right, Loki. You're a grown man and you have to follow your own path. Clint will be back in about fifteen minutes. I have to run."

And of course she meant that literally. Natasha is big on running. She enters races. She practically lives in jogging outfits. What she lacks in speed she makes up for in determination and endurance. I waved her off and headed for the workroom, where a partially assembled arrangement sat waiting on the counter.

The shop is always slow at this time of day, so I changed the radio station until I found one that suited me better and started singing along. I was doing a little dance around the table in time to a classic rock song when a young voice penetrated both the radio and my off-key singing.

"Hey! Mister, do you work here?"

I stopped moving and looked up from the fern I was tucking into place. Only I had to look down to find the originator of the question. A kid of about seven or eight stood there. He was a skinny little boy in bright red T-shirt, navy shorts and dirty tennis shoes. His sandy brown hair needed combing and the most gorgeous chocolate-brown eyes I have ever seen. I would have killed for the thick black lashes that framed them. This kid was going to be a real heartbreaker in a few years.

At the moment those expressive eyes were regarding me with an extremely adult expression.

"Oh, forgive me," I apologized, snapping off the music. "I did not hear you come in."

"I'm not surprised."

That made me blink. "You are quite young for sarcasm, are you not?"

"I'm ten."

I had guessed younger, but then I have not had a lot of experience with kids other than infant niece since I had stopped babysitting and started dating around age fifteen. The boy was watching me closely, so I tried for a sage nod.

"Ten is a good age. Can I help you with anything?"

His expression said he doubted it, but his head bobbed.

"I'm looking for D. L. Laufeyson."

Not what I had expected. My mouth fell open, so I filled it with a question. "Why?"

"I wanted to hire him," the kid explained as if I were a moron. "There's a little sign out front that says he works here. The phone book listed this address, but this place is filled with flowers. Did he move?"

Now, the sign out front next to the door is on the small side, but do you know how much a sign costs? Besides, this is my friend's shop and that means she gets the big billing. But hey! Who need to be patronized by a ten-year-old?

"D.L. Laufeyson is a private investigator," I explained to him.

"I know. That's why I want to hire him."

"You want to hire a private investigator?" I could not keep the skepticism out of my voice.

He shuffled his feet and looked down at his scuffed tennis shoes. His body was so tense, it made my muscle aches to look at him.

"I have to find Jarvis," the boy said. "See, he's old and I was supposed to keep an eye on him so he didn't get out and wander away, like he does sometimes, but I was playing a game and I forgot to check the screen door after my dad left."

He got it all out in one breath, and I wondered what sort of people would make a little kid like this responsible for some old man with Alzheimer's. The boy was far too young for that sort of responsibility.

"If he gets hit by a car or attacked by dogs, it'll be my entire fault."

I put down the fern and tried frantically to think of something comforting to offer. "I do not think you have to worry about him getting attacked by dogs."

He looked up at me, and then gave a nod as if that was not a perfectly stupid thing to say.

"I guess so. He chases old man Robby's Doberman all the time. But if I don't find Jarvis before my dad get home, he's going to be upset."

"I will tell you something, why not we call the police and . . . "

"No!" Panic filled his expression. "I want to hire D. L. Laufeyson! I can pay him."

He reached in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled wad of grungy dollar bills.

"I've got forty-two dollars saved to buy the Iron Man game. It's coming out next month, but this is more important. Do you think it's enough to find Jarvis?"

The kid was so pathetically earnest, I wanted to smack him in the head, if I do so then I will be sentence to jail for child abuse, so I refrain myself in doing. "Look, I will tell you what we. . ."

"I mean, he's just a cat. Anything could happen to him."

My mouth dropped open again. "A cat?"

The kid nodded solemnly. "D. L. Laufeyson has to help me find him. Uncle Steve says that's one of the things detective do. They find things for people."

Faced with that adorable, earnest expression, I swallowed several inappropriate responses while he waited in silence for me to say something.

"Let me get this straight." I stalled. "You want to hair me to find you cat?"

"Not you," he scoffed. "D. L. Laufeyson. And it isn't my cat he's my uncle's cat. I was just watching him."

Why me?

"Look, I hate to tell you this kid, but I'm D. L. Leufyson."

"No, you aren't. You work in the flower shop."

The tone and his assumption stung my pride. I tugged my identification folder from my hip pocket and flipped it open, holding it out for his inspection.

"See," I told him. "D. L. Laufeyson. Detective Loki Laufeyson."

The little maggot actually took the folder and examined it, comparing me to my picture. While it was not a particularly flattering picture and my hair was shorter back then, my feature were clear enough to satisfy him.

"You don't look like a private investigator."

"I get that a lot." Unfortunately it was true. "That is what makes me good at my job," I added, giving him my stock response. "Okay, kid. . . what is your name anyhow?"

"Tony,"

"Okay, Tony," I said, replacing the folder. "I had really wanted to help you, but I do not know anything about cats. Your best option. . ."

But Tony had come prepared for a brush-off. He whipped out a bent photograph of himself holding an indistinguishable blob of gray fur. He thrust it in my hand before I could finish my suggestion.

"Here's his picture," Tony said in a rush. "His name is Jarvis and he's seventeen. That's old for a cat. The screen door doesn't latch so good, so he musta got out between nine and ten this morning. I searched the whole neighborhood, but I can't find him. We live right near the park, so I bet he went there to chase birds or something, but I can't search the whole park by myself. And I have to get home before my dad finds out I'm not at the pool with Coulson and his mom. See, my dad's kinda nervous on account of my mom getting killed. Dad's been under a lot of stress."

That put the brakes on my objections and captured my full and complete attention. "Your mother was killed?"

He nodded gravely. "That's why you have to find Jarvis. I don't want my dad to be sad anymore. He'll be real upset when he finds out he's gone. I was supposed to watch him."

I had so many questions jamming my brain, I could not decide what to ask first. Unfortunately Tony moved a lot faster than my thought processes. He plopped the wad of crumpled bills on the work counter and sprinted for the front of the shop before I could blink.

"Hey! Wait!"

"You can keep the picture," Tony tossed over his shoulder.

"Wait! Tony! Wait What is your last name?"

I chased him out the front door, but he was already astride a fancy red bike, with golden strip.

"I gotta go!" he shouted. "I'm late! Keep Jarvis when you find him. I'll come back tomorrow to get him."

The bike turned the corner and sped off down the sidewalk.

I started to run after him before I remember that I was alone in the store. I could not leave until Barton returned.

Blast! How humiliating to be caught flat by a ten-year-old kid. Since standing there was not going to do much good and the afternoon heat was sucking my lungs dry. I returned to the chill air inside the store. I stared at the grungy heap of crumpled dollar bills sitting on the counter in the back room. Now what was I supposed to do?

I preferred dog than cats.

TBC..


End file.
